Click Click Bang
by kairismatic
Summary: Time can't heal everything. Established relationship. A request.


He never gets scared of it anymore, but it still hurts. He wishes he felt the fear instead.

They've been together for two years now; he's not counting the first year and a half that they stubbornly behaved as if they didn't need each other. As if they didn't crave each other's existence. But still, even without that first year and a half wasted on their own stupidity, they have two years on them. Two whole years, and the nightmares have not stopped. Time has not taken away any of it, and everything he was afraid of is happening, and it hurts.

He should have listened to himself and never fallen. But here he is, on his knees, and it is everything he had feared it would be.

He wants to feel angry at Andy, but he cannot. He is only angry at himself.

Andy is angry with him as well, which is why they are in this predicament, Chucky lying as still as possible as he tries to gently lure Andy into consciousness again. Andy does not always move in his sleep, but when he does, Chucky almost always finds himself on the wrong end of the barrel.

There is no right end for him anymore, really.

"Andy," he murmurs, careful not to speak too loud, not to sound too much like himself. It hurts, and he knows it's a selfish feeling, but he can't help but to hurt all the same. To love someone so much and be the one thing that causes them so much pain.

He would leave, if Andy told him to. He would do anything Andy wanted, if only anything would undo everything. He would lie here and let Andy shoot him, and slowly bleed away like he deserved.

But for some merciless and merciful reason, he knows that Andy does not want him gone. And so here he lies, calmly as he can, and does not move, save to breathe or speak.

"We're alright now, kid," he whispers, a little hoarse, a little heartbroken. But he'll break his heart a thousand times for Andy Barclay, damn him. "We're okay. I'm yours now, remember?"

 _Right back at ya'_ is what Andy is supposed to say, so that Chucky knows he's awaken and regained his senses. This has happened enough times that they'd created a game plan.

He still remembers lying on the floor across from Andy, on their stomachs, and Andy pointing finger guns at him drawling, "Right back at ya," like they were in High Noon. He remembers that Andy grinned and dropped the facade to say that he'd probably make a pretty swanky cowboy. Chucky had rolled his eyes at him, like he always did when Andy got into those sorts of antics.

Even after all this time, he is somewhat the same old grouch. He vows to try to be nicer to Andy, nicer in the ways that Andy deserves. He doesn't know how well he'll follow through.

Andy doesn't give the required phrase, his scowl only focusing on his target. The low lamplight only makes his silhouette appear more threatening. "Don't think I'll let you hurt me again," he says. He more growls it, but Chucky can hear the pain in his voice.

He's vaguely reminded of the first time they'd run into each other again after so many years. He wonders if Andy had wanted to say these words then. Now, in these moments, he always says these kinds of words, and he wonders if Andy is still afraid.

Whenever he asks, Andy always denies it.

"Andy, just listen to me for a sec, won't you?" he asks. A little louder this time. A little firmer. "This is _our_ apartment, don't you know? I help you fix broken pipes and tiles in your store. Your customers think I'm God's gift to mankind."

Andy is still clutching the gun. Chucky has to keep going, keep talking. Andy has to wake up before he pulls the trigger. Sometimes, Chucky just wants to let him do it. But he thinks anyways, of things to say.

"Your cooking is shit, so I always have to do it- but that means the dishes are on you. You always wrangle me into doing them with you though." Andy doesn't respond, so he sits up. Slowly. "You like pillows that feel like rocks, and I made a joke that one time that I was rock hard so I had a place for your head."

He loses himself for a moment, thinking about it. It had been funny then, and he still finds it funny now. But Andy is still there with the gun, and he has to pull him out. He's the one that put Andy here in the first place.

Anytime this happens, he has to keep talking until Andy seems to be back in reality. When he does, Chucky has to say it again. He'll say it a million times- he doesn't say it enough outside of times like these. _I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours._

He thinks, rapidly. There are other things he knows about them. Other facts he's shamefully gathered in his mind. He doesn't ever tell Andy what he says to wake him up, it still embarrasses him. Two whole years, and he's still embarrassed to tell Andy how close he keeps every moment they have. Tiffany would have a field day if she knew, which is why he'll never tell her.

"You love Billy Joel, and I prefer Elton John. You say they're the same, but I beg to differ, and we always get into long discussions about it."

It's true, they do. He can't even count on his fingers anymore how many times they've argued about this. But no matter what, they always talk for hours afterwards, their minds on things other than the original subject. Most of the talking is done by himself, but Andy seems content with things that way, grinning in that soft way he usually does. A way that makes Chucky almost forget that anything was ever wrong between them.

"You know, you're actually the first person I've met who lets me ramble on about- well, you know, whatever it is I want to ramble on about," he says. He's forgotten to speak louder, but he hasn't looked away from Andy, who hasn't moved.

"Please," Chucky asks. "Snap out of it." He swallows, hard. Even with Andy out of sorts, it's so hard. "I really need you back." He still can't believe that, after all this time – two years! – it's still so hard to admit just how much he cares.

"You can't," Andy says, but his voice is softer. "You _can't_."

"Andy," Chucky calls again, matching Andy's voice. "I won't. I promise. I _won't_."

He's hurting. He's hurting so much, and he tries to tell himself that Andy must be hurting worse than he is, but it doesn't stop his own pain. If anything, it only deepens it.

Andy's grip on the gun is wavering. "You," he says, even softer than before, almost a whisper that Chucky couldn't catch.

"Yeah, kiddo. Me," Chucky gives, trying for a laugh. He only sighs it out instead. Everything feels heavy. He just wants Andy to wake up.

"You can't," Andy tells him again.

"I won't," Chucky replies again, reassuring him. He holds his hands out, waiting. Exposed. Vulnerable. Andy's arms finally relax and the gun is aimed downwards. He watches for a sudden movement, a sign he is still dreaming. There is none, although Andy's eyes are still trained on him, as if looking away for one second would be the end. "I'm yours, Andy. I'm _yours_."

Andy's eyes are foggy. Chucky holds his breath.

"Right back at ya," Andy says, finally, and Chucky has to stop his emotions from drowning them, both because he detests crying, and because right now, Andy needs someone to be strong for him. He's turned the safety on the gun again and let it clatter on their bedroom floor, everything trembling terribly.

"C'mere," Chucky says, and he is whispering. Andy takes slow and seemingly painful steps, but he makes it to the bed and sits in front of him, eyes watering. His bottom lip quivering.

Chucky pretends not to notice when he wipes the beginning of tears away, and clears his throat. Neither of them like to be vulnerable.

"I'm sorry," Andy mumbles, voice hoarse and broken. "I'm so, _so_ sorry. I'm so-"

"Don't worry about all that," Chucky shushes him, surprisingly gentle for himself. More surprisingly, it came naturally and quickly, without any previous preparation or anxiety on how it should be delivered. He reaches for Andy's hands to see that his own are shaking, the two of them clearly enervated. "We can both apologize until we're dead if you want- but I consider that a waste of time, don't you?"

Andy grins. He starts to laugh. And then he cries, suddenly and loudly and openly, and Chucky opens his arms and reminds himself that there is nothing weak about holding someone and letting them find comfort on your shoulder.

But it isn't his pride that keeps him from telling Andy just how much it hurts to see him broken, and just how much he wishes he could fix everything.

And he lets Andy fall asleep, his head pillowed on his chest, and he doesn't tell Andy how much he wonders, and he doesn't sleep much for the rest of the night.


End file.
